


the more things change

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Diverse Trans Experiences, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Dysphoria, Other, Trans Character, self discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: Fitz is a trans man, post op and long since settled into his identity. When the love of his life starts showing signs of following in his footsteps, so to speak, he's sure to guide and support them on whatever journey their path may walk.T for some sexual/nsfw references, and mild dysphoria.





	the more things change

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr request (paraphrased) "Trans masculine Simmons, FitzSimmons, & fluff."
> 
> *note: while the request suggested masculine pronouns, I've transitioned to neutral here as it felt more suitable for a number of reasons. I hope the prompter (and everyone else of course) enjoys nonetheless.
> 
> Currently accepting Pride prompts in the comments or on tumblr (@theclaravoyant)

Jemma stood in front of the mirror, and studied herself. She didn’t often do this, not since her younger days of body image issues had faded behind her, but lately, something felt off. Was she losing weight? Was she bloating? Had she only just noticed how short her legs looked when she stood flat, having grown accustomed to wearing boots and heels in her new administrative position? No, no, and no, it didn’t seem to be any of these things. Yet, her body felt wrong. Was she getting sick again, maybe dissociating? It didn’t feel quite like that, either. It was a mysterious strangeness, an out-of-place-ness, that had been hanging around her like a poltergeist the last few days – few weeks, maybe? – but, she recalled as she thought on it now, it only happened when she looked at or touched her own body.

She hummed, pensive and mildly concerned at this revelation, and Fitz looked up from his reading. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, a small frown furrowing his brow. 

“Nothing,” Jemma assured him, but she turned in front of the mirror, examining her breasts and hips. Perhaps her proportions were different for some reason? They didn’t seem so, and her clothes fit as well as they ever had. She put a hand on her belly. It was a little bloated, but she’d recently eaten and it was nearing the end of the day. That was to be expected. She hummed again. 

“You feeling okay?” Fitz checked. Jemma turned to face him. 

“Do I look okay?” 

“Beautiful, always,” he swore, and Jemma blushed a little, but rolled her eyes. 

“I mean, do I look _different?_ ” she restated. “Something feels – weird, I don’t know. I don’t feel myself.” 

“You look yourself,” Fitz promised. “Healthy and glowing as always. And I’m not just saying that. You know you look after yourself.” 

Jemma shrugged, and sat down on the side of the bed, unsatisfied. Fitz cast his reading aside and massaged her shoulders gently. 

“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “You’re probably just exhausted.”

“Maybe.” 

“Come to bed, then,” Fitz beckoned. “An early night will be good for the both of us.” 

With no better ideas, Jemma dragged herself back to their chest of drawers, and pulled out one of Fitz’s old Academy shirts to sleep in. Unfortunately, her body had other plans, and though Fitz turned off the lights and fell asleep soon enough, Jemma lay awake and stared at the ceiling for some time afterward. Her restless mind raised possibility after possibility. It was probably something she’d eaten, or a stressor that she’d forgotten about, but she couldn’t help but wonder – could it be hormonal? She wasn’t pregnant, was she? Not unless her IUD was defective, which was unlikely – but! There, nearby in her mind, was another thought that might be useful. She’d had this feeling at the beginning of a few periods, before.

“Oh, great,” she grumbled to herself, rolling onto her side in irritation. Just PMS and it had kept her up half the night. Half a night more than it deserved. Maybe she’d have to see about adjusting her contraception – but that, she thought with relief, could wait until the morning. 

-

After that night, the issue was… well not dropped exactly, but, for a time, successfully ignored. Jemma intentionally avoided spending time in front of the mirror and adjusted her hormones and that seemed to do the trick. Only, she also went back to flats and tennis shoes, and she wore a singlet under her blouses even when it was quite warm, and she started signing her documents _Dr. J._ – instead of _Jemma – Simmons, PhD._ To the untrained eye, these were unconnected tweaks; minor and independent lifestyle changes in the name of health, comfort, and professional aesthetic. To Fitz’s very-much-trained eye, however, they were emblematic of a deeper change in Jemma; one that even she might struggle to access. 

As any good scientist would, and as Jemma would expect and would, no doubt, find comforting should his theory prove correct (or at least, interesting if not), Fitz compiled several months of evidence. He grew ever more sure of his intuitive conclusion, and began to complement it with updated and accredited research and personal accounts. It began to build a picture, and while it was only one picture – only one potential explanation for Jemma’s feelings – he began to feel such a strong passion for it that he had to remind himself how likely it was that he could be wrong. The goal was to help Jemma feel like herself, Fitz repeated, and this just seemed the best way, at this point, to do that.

Only once he was prepared both to be right, and to be wrong, did Fitz bring the subject up with Jemma. It was a night not unlike the one that had started him thinking, except that the mirror was half-hidden and covered up these days, out of use, and it was Jemma in bed reading as Fitz uncovered it.

“Jemma?” Fitz requested. “Come over here.” 

“Why?” Jemma got up, but eyed the mirror uncertainly. 

“I want to try something. Put this on.”

“Are those – Speedos?”

“No.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t see where this was going. Was it a prank, perhaps? But there was something in Fitz’s eyes that made her trust him, and pull on the underwear she’d never seen before in her life. Fitz passed her another garment. A white button-up shirt. Not tailor-cut, but too small for any of the guys on base, that she had seen anyway. Fitz watched intently for her reaction as she buttoned it up and pulled it flat, but aside from mild confusion and mild satisfaction, she wasn’t sure what he wanted out of her. He followed the shirt with her own pants and belt, and finished off by presenting Jemma with one of his own ties. He did it up for her because – well, he seemed to know where he was going with all this, and Jemma didn’t. But when he stepped away, out from between her and the mirror, she blinked in astonishment. 

“I look different,” she said, and her voice was not tainted with melancholy this time, but flavoured with a spark of hope; of excitement. 

“Still yourself,” Fitz offered. “If you feel okay.” 

“I do! But I don’t – I mean, I don’t understand,” Jemma said, confused. “You didn’t change anything, I already basically dress like this, why –“ 

She met his eyes, and the depth of his suggestion that she had somehow missed before began to sink in. 

“I changed the cut of the shirt,” Fitz explained. “That changes the shape of your body, which might be why it’s more comfortable to look at your reflection now. And, just a point of interest, that belt you’ve been wearing for years is a man’s belt, too.” 

“Men’s belts are just better,” Jemma pointed out. “But the shirt, I - I’m not sure I get it. Change the shape of my body? Why?” 

Fitz had been hoping the physical sensations of the new outfit would do a lot more of the explaining for him, but since that apparently was not to be, he took a deep breath and let it spill. 

“You remember that night, about three months or so ago, you said your body felt different and wrong and you weren’t sure why? That’s called dysphoria, and it’s a common sign of – well, of being… transgender. Other common things you’ve been doing are, wearing men’s clothes - although admittedly that’s a weak one, wearing a singlet - which can mean a desire to bind your chest or even get rid of your breasts - and showing preference for a neutral rather than gendered name and pronouns.” 

“A what-now?”

“It’s hard to notice because people don’t often talk about you in third person when you’re present, but think about it. Like, for example, just off the top of my head: you hate being called Miss or Jemma. You’ve always preferred Doctor, Agent, or Simmons. You even introduce yourself to your friends by your last, gender-neutral name.” 

“So do you!”

“That’s a point to me, though.” 

Jemma pouted, her logic thwarted. 

“I like it when _you_ call me Jemma,” she retorted. 

“Yes, because it’s your name. You also don’t have a screaming desire to have a penis, as far as I’ve noticed, but – look, just think about it, okay? Obviously, I can’t tell you what’s in your head, but I’ve got a pretty unique lens to view this stuff through and I thought it was worth a mention.” 

“Is that why you stuffed my pants with – what is this, socks?” Jemma stuffed a hand down her pants and tossed them away. “I’m happy with my – my lower half just how it is, thank you. And isn’t the penis, you know, sort of the point? Not that I think you’re right. I’m just curious.” 

Fitz snorted. _Not that I think you’re right_ was always a good sign, if not a dead giveaway, and after all their years together he still wasn’t sure whether Jemma even noticed that she said it. 

“No, the penis isn’t part of it for a lot of people. Some people don’t even bind their chests, or even want to. Or they do some days and not others. Bodies and genders are weird and complex. You know that.” 

“I do.” Jemma sighed, and studied her reflection again. There was a long moment of surprisingly heavy silence, and Fitz almost offered to leave the room from the sheer weight of it, except that Jemma reached out for him. 

“Actually,” she said. “Do you think – could we try that binding thing after all?” 

- 

With this new knowledge, experimental though it was, Simmons roamed through her life in a new way. Reading Fitz’s notes, and remembering and discovering new feelings and new inconsistencies along the way, _she_ became _they_ , as the landscape of gender shifted before them. Through slips in conversation, _Jemma_ turned back into _Simmons,_ for the most part, and the little _J._ became a friendly reminder of this discovery of self. They researched gender, and gender dysphoria, and found a whole slew of anxiety symptoms that coincided with gender dysphoria and could have hidden it for so long. They were especially relieved to find that many of these symptoms abated beyond what they’d thought possible, the more they settled into themselves.

For his part, Fitz was ceaselessly supportive. He rolled with Jemma’s feminine days, Simmons’ masculine ones, and the ones in between as best he could. He brought ties and unpinched shirts, and a man’s watch that he thought wouldn’t be too ridiculously huge on Simmons’ relatively small arm. This, he presented to them for their birthday, along with a proper binder that was safe and supportive. He helped them put it on and together they both stood in front of the mirror once more. 

“It’s beautiful, Fitz, thank you,” Simmons said, admiring their figure. The singlet-like binder itself didn’t look anything special, but it felt like a hug, and when they put a shirt on over it – even one of their more feminine blouses – there was something about it that felt _right._ They smiled, and turned to lean up on their toes and kiss Fitz. 

Pulling away, though, their smile dropped a little. Fitz caught their hands, frowning with concern. 

“What is it, love?” he wondered. 

“I was just thinking,” Simmons said. “I think it’s time to tell the others. I’m not sure how they’ll take it. What it’ll mean.” 

“I think you forget that our best friend is an alien superweapon,” Fitz pointed out. “The team can probably handle a little gender shake-up. And as for what it’ll all mean – well, to me what it means is you might not be my beautiful wife, but my handsome partner instead, and that as well as being in love with such a wonderful, intelligent, kind and powerful person, I have the privilege of knowing that I helped them become more balanced, more content and better at one with themselves in the world.” 

“You already should have known that long before all this, Fitz. You’ve made me happier since the day I met you.” 

“I beg to differ.” 

“I was talking overall net increase.” 

“Okay. I’ll let you have that one. Or is it myself I’m letting have..?”

Laughing, Simmons knotted their fingers between Fitz’s and swung their arms apart in a wide circle, opening a gate through which they could lean forward and up on their toes again to kiss Fitz’s teasing smile off his face. They leaned on his chest for a while, and eventually Fitz untangled their fingers and wrapped his arms around them. They looked up at him, eyes sparkling with hope and love and Fitz thought he must be looking back with rather the same expression. Simmons smiled at him. 

“I’m serious, Fitz,” they said. “You make me eternally happy. Especially these last few weeks; thanks for helping me find my feet in this mess. You’ve been incredible. So knowledgeable and supportive. Really, I can only dream to one day repay the favour.” 

Fitz snorted softly, too fondly to be derisive, and Simmons knew what was coming before he said it: 

“You already have.”

 


End file.
